


Galanthus

by Sunnybone



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, because Sylvain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone/pseuds/Sunnybone
Summary: Sylvain and Bernadetta talk about flowers; Bernie is Bernie, Sylvain is Sylvain, and someone gets a present.ForSylvain WeekDay 1: Snowdrop
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Bernadetta von Varley
Comments: 14
Kudos: 117
Collections: Sylvain Week 2020!





	Galanthus

**Author's Note:**

> Whoop I hope you enjoy this fluff

They are working in the greenhouse together, and Sylvain is content to dig in the dirt and forget about the war for five minutes while Bernadetta hums and smiles over the state of their harvest. 

The two have come to an understanding, thanks to time and Sylvain’s persistence and the fact that they’re _in a war_ , and she no longer shrieks at the sight of him or accuses him of teasing her if he breathes. Sylvain even likes to think she’s gotten comfortable around him—she lets him read her new writing, at least, and she glows with every compliment he gushes. Her humming stops and he looks up from the wild onions he’s currently transplanting, his fingers still in the soil.

“What’s up?” he asks at the sad little look on her face, and she flinches a tiny bit but she doesn’t _apologize_ , and that’s a start.

“I was just thinking how much I miss _my_ plants. I had a few, in my room, before.” Before the war broke out and they had to abandon the monastery, and those plants are long dead. He wonders how she’d felt, returning to her place of sanctuary, only to find it filled with death. 

The war fills everything with death.

“What’s your favorite plant?” he asks, because he may not know much about actual gardening like De— like some people, but he knows _flowers_ , and he’s a little curious. He wonders what kind of flower Bernadetta would favor; something sentimental, perhaps, pretty like her and with some poetic meaning like her writing.

She surprises him—she _always_ surprises him.

“I like pitcher plants!” He blinks at her, and when her shoulders go up he can’t help cracking a smile. Why did he think for even a second that Bernie would go the conventional route? “I just, I think carnivorous plants are so cute! Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not laughing at you, I promise,” he says, tilting his head to lean his cheek against his fisted knuckles, heedless of the dirt on his fingers. “I’m just surprised; most girls when you ask them wax on about roses or chrysanthemums, y’know, romantic stuff. I think it’s nice that you like something different, it’s refreshing.”

She flusters for a second, like she does with any compliment, but her mouth is turned in a tiny smile that warms him from the inside out. “Ok, w-well, what about you?” When he only looks at her, she adds, “What’s _your_ favorite plant?” He thinks for a second and comes up blank.

“Huh. I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know_?”

“It’s never come up,” he says, while she frowns. He feels oddly defensive. “I’m usually the one _giving_ girls flowers, I’ve never thought about it the other way around.”

“That’s sad,” she says. “I think everyone benefits from having plants around.”

“Probably,” he says, before she hands him a handkerchief for the dirt on his cheek and the conversation turns. He figures that’s the end of it, and he puts the whole thing out of his mind.

The war goes on, and the Professor pairs them for tasks more often; it probably helps their productivity if Bernadetta isn’t nervous and shrieking or apologizing for every tiny imagined mistake, and Sylvain is one of the few who can say he doesn’t make her nervous. He isn’t sure whether to be proud of the fact, or disturbed that she’s still so uncomfortable around so many of their generally harmless (outside of battle) allies.

So when she starts to avoid him while they plan to march on Ailell, it makes him… well, _upset_. It throws him off. She sits as far as possible from him in the dining hall, squeaks and hides if she sees him on the grounds, sinks into her chair during war councils and refuses to look at him. She _definitely_ doesn’t invite him by her room to look at her manuscripts anymore.

The worst part is he does not know what he has _done_. It’s his fault, of course, because it always _is_ , but for the first time Sylvain has driven a girl away and doesn’t have a clue how he _did_ it. He tries to give her space, but it’s not as if her shrinking and running is inconspicuous, and he weathers plenty of disgusted glares from his friends while he shrugs morosely. In the days before they march, Ingrid finally corners him in the stables and tells him this is a mess she refuses to clean up for him, and that he had better do it himself, _immediately._

Which ends with him standing here, in front of Bernie’s door, shifting from one foot to the other and feeling...nervous? He likes Bernadetta, and he doesn’t particularly want to be another source of stress and _fear_ for her, but other than cornering her like a bear in its hibernaculum, he can’t figure how to get her to tell him just _what_ he did wrong so he can fix it. Or at least let her know he won’t do it again, and she can have her space without _hiding_ from him.

“J-just a minute!” she squeaks from inside when he knocks on the door, and when she opens the door a crack to see who is there she squeaks again and slams it shut. The hopeful little smile on his face crumples, which is fine, no one is here to see him without a mask of disaffection and realize he might actually have _emotional depth_.

“Hey, Bernie,” he says to the wood in front of him. “I’m sorry to corner you like this, I just. Wanted to apologize?” His hand lifts to the back of his neck on reflex, even if she can’t see him. “Honestly, I’m not sure what _for_ , but if you wanted to tell me—”

The door cracks open again, just enough for a glimpse of a small nose and a silver eye that’s crinkled in confusion. “Why would you need to apologize?”

He laughs a little, low and mirthless, and the door opens a bit more. “I dunno, Bernie; you’re the one avoiding me. I guess I must’ve done _something_. Anyways,” he offers the hand not gripping his neck, holding a little pot with a pitcher plant he’d had a hell of a time getting hold of, and tries a smile. “Peace offering?”

The door opens completely and something tight in his chest loosens a little when she reaches out with both hands to take the pot. Bernie looks up at him, and she doesn’t look nervous or _frightened_ , just pleased and a little confused. “Sylvain, this is um. This is sweet.”

“Ok. Good. That’s, uh, good. So… mind telling me what I did? So I don’t do it again. Or, if you just want me to leave you alone, you only have to say so—”

“No, no, I—!” Bernie looks torn for a second, and then ushers him back into her room. He follows, and he wonders if she realizes the kind of damage her reputation could take as she closes the door firmly behind him. Maybe that was why she’d started avoiding him in the first place, and he should be hunting down gossips.

He watches her set the pitcher plant gently on her desk, fussing with it for a moment, and he lets her have her time to gather whatever she’s planning to say. Still, he isn’t expecting, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, we talked about this,” he starts, because they _have_ talked about how she doesn’t have to apologize for the imagined crime of _existing_ , but she turns towards him again and he stops. Her cheeks are pink and she’s wringing her hands, and her eyes keep flitting around, only making it to his chin before they dart away and then back again. “For...what?”

“I, um, well, I wanted to surprise you! And. Maybe.” She manages a second of eye contact and completely wilts, her voice turning into a mumble, “Maybe-I-got-carried-away.”

“You’re avoiding me because you wanted to… surprise me?”

“I didn’t want you to find out about it!” she practically wails, hands clasped in front of her chest, and he thinks about the last three weeks of _this_ and sighs. He can’t help the little smile, though, as fond as it is exasperated.

“I’m not a mind reader, you know; I’m not going to pick up secrets out of thin air.” 

“But I might have slipped up! I might have given you a clue and then you would have figured it all out because you’re _too smart_! And then _it would have been ruined_.” She says this with utter sincerity, as though this surprise being ruined would be a death sentence, and Sylvain presses his lips tight against a chuckle.

“Well, I’m not _that_ smart, because I thought you were avoiding me because you hate me—” he stops because she steps forward and latches on to his arms, staring up at him with a look of horror.

“What? No! I would never—you’re my _friend_! You’re nice and you don’t push and I _like_ you!” Sylvain lets that hang in the air a second while Bernie’s horror goes from ‘I made you feel bad’ to ‘I have embarrassed myself’, her face blossoming from blanched white into an almost luminous pink. She detaches herself from his arms and her hands creep up to press her cheeks before sliding up so her fingers can scrabble nervously in her hair. “I’m really, really sorry,” she manages, just a breathy little chirp.

Sylvain takes pity on her.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. Just give me a sign next time, like, write me a note. You know I’ll give you space whenever you want it, you just have to tell me.” Bernadetta looks up at him again, from under her hands, and he smiles as reassuring as he can.

“D-do… do you want to see your surprise now?”

“Is it ready?” Bernadetta frowns thoughtfully.

“Uh, sort of? Mostly.”

“If you want to show me, sure.” 

Bernie turns and goes over to an assortment of potted plants on her dresser, turning to give him a furtive look over her shoulder while she fusses with them. She lifts one up and then fumbles it behind her back as she comes to stand in front of him again.

“So… um, you said nobody gave you flowers and you didn’t have a favorite, so I did my best to pick something nice that reminds me of you—” she stops, whips the pot around from behind her back, and almost shoves it at him with both hands, not making eye contact. “I-hope-you-like-them.” 

The pot is full of slender green stems with white buds atop them, only a few having grown and drooped open into pretty, three-petaled bells. He’s familiar with the flowers, they grow even as far north as Gautier, and carpets of them push up through the snow at the cusp of spring. There’s even a small festival celebrated in some of the villages when they start to pop up.

“Why snowdrops?” he asks, gentle, as he takes the pot from her offering hands and brings it to his face to smell the few opened flowers; the fragrance is faint, but fresh.

“Um, well, lots of reasons!” She leans back and holds up a hand, ticking off her fingers as she looks up towards the ceiling in thought. “They’re from the north, so, they’re kind of like you, and they’re not hard to get in Faerghus. And they grow in snow, too, which is good because you said it’s very snowy in Gautier.” He nods, looking at her over the blooms. 

“They have a nice meaning, too, uh, I think, which is um, ‘consolation’, and you’ve always been good at making people feel better? Er, me, at least, but also! Also, they mean ‘hope’, and I like that for you.” He’s not really sure _what_ face he’s making when she glances at him, but he’s feeling incredibly touched and fond, and her cheeks go pink again before she looks away; it’s a nice color on her. “Also, they’re pretty,” she mumbles, ticking off her last finger.

“Ah, so you think I’m pretty, huh?” He can't resist, and the way she genuinely _pouts_ at him and mumbles about _teasing_ spreads a grin across his face. "I do like them," he says warmly. "They're thoughtful, and they _are_ pretty. I'll think fondly of my charming Bernie every time I look at them," he adds, and the pink on her cheeks crawls down her neck and up under her bangs. He cradles the pot in one hand and reaches out with the other to brush over her hair, setting it to rights from where she had ruffled it into an approximation of her academy hairstyle with her nervous fingers. Bernadetta catches his wrist and he freezes, looks down at her.

"Don't tease," she says, low, just above a whisper, and her silvery eyes are serious. Sylvain nods, his grin slipping into something small and soft, and he brings his hand down off of her hair, just barely touches his fingertips to the curve of her jaw before pulling back as she releases him.

"I'm not." And, for once, he _really isn't_. Bernadetta, who sees in him _comfort_ and _hope_ , searches his face and must find the truth of him, because she ducks her head in a little nod and whispers 'alright'. But still, Bernadetta requires delicacy, a more tender tact, and he breathes slow and nods to himself. "I should go put these in my room; maybe you can tell me more about how to take care of them over dinner?" He doesn't miss her sigh of relief, but she smiles up at him and nods.

"Sure. That would be nice."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! 
> 
> Find me on Twitter [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


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